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Our people are poets. When Dervalloc speaks of killing, he means using reason to defeat your arguments. When he speaks of sending you home in pieces, he means something quite harmless, I'm sure.

Romans, you are damned. You have wakened the terrible anger of our gods and ancestors, and they will show you no mercy. We will crush your bones into the land you have desecrated. We will slit your veins and watch the blood burst from you and shower down upon our soil. We will swallow you up, and our strong green shoots will spring to life where you once stood. See your gods tremble and fall before the wrath of Boudica!

All men die, Isolda. All women, too. Our lives are over in a moment, like a bird that flies out of the darkness into a bright hall full of light and noise and merriment, then out again into the darkness of eternity. But in that moment, we can do great things. We can make ourselves remembered forever. And by all the gods, we will!

[last words] That was the beginning of her story, Isolda, my daughter. And no one will ever hear it. Because we don't write our stories down. We live them.

Look at them. They're fighting this war to save their people. To keep their right to their own land. To preserve their religion and their right to practice it. And we're fighting it because... we're here, because it's our job... professional pride, really. Not enough, is it?